That instant, a vision triggers off in my head
of your fingers round a sawn-off
shotgun, eyes like stray bullets
frozen inwards, I
know what you were doing.
I imagine all the other parents sobbing
frantic pleas for protection from
you, the monster I had made,
forged from steel, iron
willed. Were you born to kill?
After your feed, I would hug you close to my neck
and breathe in the scent of fresh bread,
your whole hand entwined around
my thumb. How could I
not know? Why couldn’t you
tell me? Now I’m the pariah, the psychopath
pelted with ketchup-soaked tampons.
Your room is just the same, clean,
made-up. I’ve set out
brownies for you. Come soon.